A Nameless Thing
by atomicpen
Summary: They didn't want to put their fingers on it, thought giving it a name would give it more power. In the end, not doing so only brought them closer. In-progress series of short stories not necessarily related, but part of a larger whole. Sebastian/F!Hawke.
1. Request

Sebastian frowned as he listened to Hawke take the First Enchanter's side over the Knight-Commander's. It wasn't that he wholly agreed with all the templar tactics of how they handled mages, but he knew something had to be done, and the order seemed to be the only ones willing to step up and do anything about it. Anders was always raving about how horrible all the templars were and how viciously they treated mages, but Sebastian knew better. Not only did he clearly recall meeting templars who were kind and went so far as to help mages if they could, but also mages who were the ones who abused and used others. He also had several conversations with more than a few templars himself in the Chantry, and learned first-hand that the majority of them truly wanted to help mages to learn control over their powers. It was the discipline instilled into them through their training that made them want to help mages do the same. It was just that the loudest templars—the ones everyone paid attention to—were the ones who spoke out against mages. As always, the good deeds went mostly unnoticed. Sebastian had come to expect that viewpoint from Anders—he and the apostate did _not_ get along, to put it lightly—but from Hawke now? He had thought she possessed more sense than to blindly follow one side or the other, to not allow herself to become biased. Through all this time, she remained strong on the middle ground, leaning slightly one way or the other only when circumstances forced her to. Even with her own sister a mage in the Circle, she had not relented. But now…

He focused his attention back to what she was saying. Now she seemed to openly support mages. He exchanged a glance with Fenris, whom he could tell was also disappointed of this new and sudden change. Only Anders looked pleased.

Knight-Commander Meredith abruptly ended the argument and stalked away, leaving Orsino to thank Hawke for her support before he, too, left for the Circle. Sebastian fought back the urge to grab her arm and drag her to the side to find out what in the name of the Maker she was thinking. But he held his tongue for now, in the group. He would speak with her about it privately, later. He would give her the chance to explain herself before he allowed himself to think less of her.

Fenris held no such reserves, and spoke his mind as soon as they were making their way back to Hightown.

"What was that all about?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "What was what about?"

"Suddenly taking a side, after all this time?"

Anders cut in before Hawke answered. "This is no time to be sitting on any fences," he said vehemently. "The templars are trying to run this city and control mages within an inch of their lives." His eyes narrowed fiercely, and Sebastian swore he caught glimpses of Justice—of Vengeance—coming through. "The time for middle grounds has long since past." Fenris glowered at the apostate.

"Thinks are quite volatile right now," Hawke intervened diplomatically. As much as he and Anders disliked each other, Fenris and Anders conversing on just about anything was akin to setting a crate of gunpowder near open flame. And both their heads had been running extra hot lately. The entire city was.

But instead of retorting, Fenris scowled and said, "I should be getting home."

"That's right," the blonde man started, "run away—"

"Before I tear anything vita from your gut," the tanned elf finished, the words almost a growl.

Hawke stepped between them. "Good day, then Fenris. Shall we meet later for that bottle of wine you unearthed?" Sebastian could tell she intentionally kept her tone light. Fenris muttered something angrily, but nodded to her before turning on his heel and striding off.

Anders snorted. "What does he know?" he said.

Sebastian's brows went up, and he could no longer hold his tongue. The armoured archer turned on the mage.

"What does _he_ know?" Sebastian thundered. "Have you ever had a conversation with him beyond that of your own concerns? He was a _slave_ to mages, Anders. Mages that let their power grab hold of their minds to further their own goals."

The fury directed at him cause Anders to literally take a step back, but to his credit, he didn't waver.

"You don't have to be a mage to let power go to your head or for it to corrupt you. Look at what the Knight-Commander is doing in her retaliation in extremes," the apostate shot back.

"That's why those with power—lots of power—need checks and balances. How can the normal man or woman guard against someone who manipulates the elements? Who can be more readily possessed by demons—who _choose_ to be possessed?" The last phrase of the sentence was a snarl.

Hawke had to physically push them apart to keep them from attacking one another.

"Enough of this," she snapped at them both. "Neither of you is going to agree with or sway the other, and you _cannot_ each others' throats out. It won't solve anything and I need you both too much." She fixed Anders, then Sebastian, with a firm, icy stare, daring either of them to defy her.

Anders fumed a moment longer, then visibly composed himself.

"I'd rather not associate or continue in this farce of a conversation with a sympathiser to torturers, anyhow," he said scathingly, then took his leave toward his Darktown clinic, faint crackling and the smell of ozone trailing him.

Hawke watched him go, her hand still absently resting on Sebastian's chest plate from separating the two. With the apostate gone and his anger still hot, the archer grabbed Hawke's wrist and roughly dragged her along as he started walking. She made a noise of protest and stumbled at first until she caught up to his powerful strides, longer than usual due to his ire.

"Sebastian," she said. "What are you doing?"

"We are going somewhere more private. There are matters we must needs discuss. I will not have another scene like that." His eyes stayed focused on the path ahead, his jaw tense and squared.

"But, you were the one who confronted—" Hawke began.

His head snapped back to look at her. "Were we listening to the same man? You heard as well as I his implication of insult toward Fenris." Fury still flashed I his cobalt eyes before he looked back to where he was dragging her.

"I think you might be overreacting just a bit, Sebastian." She tried to maintain a laughing tone, but he could hear it falter now.

"I think you might be siding with bias with one party member over others," Sebastian growled.

"Hey, now," Hawke said, her tone serious. She tried to jerk her wrist out of his grasp, but he was far stronger than she, and he merely tugged her forward, his calloused fingers like iron. "I do not like the direction you sound to be taking."

He stopped, looking up at her estate, then back to her. "And I do not like how you react this way for Anders, but not Fenris nor I." His eyes narrowed as he released her wrist. "Inside."

She glared at him. "Do not presume to order me around in my own home, Sebastian Vael. Prince or no, I still—"

He made a feral noise in his throat and nearly pinned her against the inside wall of the doorway, his left hand slamming into the hard stone next to her head. She jumped. Sharply, he said, "Hawke! Would you just go inside so we can talk?"

She looked at him a moment longer before sliding nimbly under his arm to open the door for them both. As they strode to her main receiving room, Bodhan and Sandal made to greet her and her guest, but she lifted a hand to quiet them.

"My guest and I need time to ourselves," she told him icily, though the tone and her matching gaze rested solely on Sebastian, he knew. "We have important matters to discuss."

The two dwarves bowed out of the room as gracefully as they could muster quickly, and Faolan lifted his head to watch the two rogues warily. Hawke wordlessly lead Sebastian to a room she had recently converted into her library and motioned him to sit in one of the chairs, while she did the same, opposite him. He waited for her to sit before taking his seat, then gave her no time before launching into angry speech.

"I've a bone to pick with you," he started, the thickening of his burr of an accent going entirely unnoticed by him. It happened every time he got that angry.

"Look, I know you don't like Anders, but—"

"But nothing! This isn't entirely about Anders, if you could stop talking about him for ten minutes." The anger in him exploded again, but this time he couldn't quite pinpoint as to why.

"You sure? Because it really seems like you have a problem with Anders more than anyone else. Maybe _I'm_ not the one you should be talking to," she retorted.

"That apostate and I will never see anything remotely lose to eye to eye, I hold no doubts about that. He is entirely too extremist for my liking." Sebastian's lip curled in derision.

"And being an _apostate_ to boot doesn't help things, right?" Hawke accused, emphasising the same word Sebastian had with mock disgust.

"The way you defend the man, and siding with the First Enchanter over the Knight-Commander in front of everyone one like you did!"

"Would you have had me side with Meredith?"

"No, I would not. What ever happened to the solid middle-ground Hawke I knew?"

A great hurt flashed through her face and settled in her eyes, but her voice was acid.

"How dare you." The volume dropped, but it was only to let more venom out. "How _dare_ you say something like that to me, Sebastian Vael."

He blinked, his anger momentarily given way to surprise at the sudden change in her demeanor.

"I think it is a well-warranted—"

She didn't let him get any further than that. "My _sister_ is a mage in the Circle. Two of my dearest friends are mages, and both the First Enchanger _and_ the Knight-Commander expect me to side with one of them or the other."

"Today sure sounded like you already had."

"What would you have me do, Sebastian? People I care about are mages, and I don't like many of the habits and techniques the Knight-Commander and her templars implement against them. But," she continued as she saw him make to say something, "I also don't like the idea of mages running around unchecked, possessed by demons, and making slaves." She hesitated only a second. "My sister included."

"Hawke, I—" She held up her hand.

"No, Sebastian, let me finish." Her tone was firm, and he could still see the hurt in her eyes. His anger had diffused almost entirely at the sight of that.

"I don't _want_ side over another. I think both have their merits and failings. But I _had_ to."

He shook his head, unbelieving. "No one forced your hand, Hawke."

"Oh, they did. My hand was well forced, do not ever think otherwise. Did you see how Anders nearly exploded when you confronted him about one angry comment directed at Fenris? I know you saw the hint of the demon inside him."

His eyes widened and his mouth fell open a little. She _was_ trying to appease Anders, he realised, but for the exact opposite reason he had been fearing. It hit him that he had blown up himself so violently not solely because he thought she had chosen a side, but because he thought that bias had come from a desirous affection for Anders. Pure, unabated jealousy had gripped his heart, twisted his gut. He felt ashamed of himself, that it would stare him in the face so and he not recognise it for what it was. That _he_ had forced her to explain herself to him. He, who had no right to force anything concerning her.

Her eyes were downcast when he searched her face, and her voice had softened, with just a twinge of fear and pain tugging at the edges.

"Maker forgive me, but I only chose to side with the mages at all because I want to keep Anders as calm as possible," she told him. "I do not want Justice—Vengeance, whatever it is in there—released upon this powder keg of a city. I can only protect him so much as the Champion."

"And even now, since you've publicly sided with the mages… now that is even more precarious because of the Knight-Commander's potential ire," Sebastian added quietly. She looked up at him, and their eyes met. Something exchanged between them, and understanding, and something more. A nameless thing that neither wanted to admit to themselves, let alone each other. But the truth of it sank deep into the pit of his stomach and settled there.

"I—" she stammered. "Thank you, Sebastian. For understanding."

He shook his head. "No, Hawke. You should be the one being thanked. I had no idea." On impulse, he got down to one knee before her and bowed his auburn head. "I pray you find it in yourself to forgive my ignorance and my anger."

Awkwardly, Hawke gripped his biceps and tugged him to standing as she did so herself.

"Don't be silly," she told him, cheeks ruddy. "Everyone's on edge." A tired smile perched on her lips. "And you and Anders never got along to begin with."

Concerned etched its way through his features, and he reached up to lightly grasp her chin and jaw between his thumb and forefinger. The red on her skin deepened and she pulled her hands back.

"You haven't been sleeping well," he murmured. She didn't meet his eyes. Her lips… her lips were so close to his own…

"I am tired," she admitted, breaking his thoughts. "I'm tired of everyone expecting me to make everyone happy. I'm tired of having to play peacemaker between so many of my friends—"

"To be fair, we mostly all have a problem with Anders. Usually."

She shot him a look that made him shut his mouth.

"That's the exact sort of thing I am tired of."

He clucked at himself, tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Forgive me yet again. It was a very ill timed jest."

Despite herself, she chuckled softly. "I would leave the jokes to Varric, if I were you," she teased, sounding more like her usual self.

He smiled. "There's the Hawke I know," he told her. But he remembered the hurt in her eyes, the sudden paleness of her face, the dark rings under her eyes. He still hadn't removed his fingers from her face, and he now tilted it to look up at him.

"You should take better care of yourself, Hawke," he said softly, his thumb gently tracing the line of her jaw. "Else you will wear yourself too thin. We would all fall apart without you." He wasn't entirely certain if he meant more their group, or the city of Kirkwall itself.

A blush rose in her cheeks. "I'll—I'll be all right," she said, though he didn't quite believe her. He let his hand fall away, and almost awkward silence falling over them.

"Perhaps I should go," he said. "It is not exactly proper to be still here this late with you and no one else."

Hawke laughed and made a face. "Of everyone, I think I need worry about you sullying my honour the least," she told him.

His jaw clenched and unclenched, but she didn't notice it. It only she knew, she wouldn't be saying things like that. He would not betray her trust, he resolved again. The vulnerability she showed him flashed through his mind. He was certain few, if any, had seen her like that. He offered her a mild smile, the words of his affection toward her on his lips before he realised what he was about to say, and caught himself.

"I—Goodnight, Hawke," he mumbled instead, shifting uncomfortably.

She eyed him. "You're acting rather oddly all of a sudden. Are you feeling all right?"

He nodded, composing himself. He calmed his mind like his grandfather taught him to do.

"I am just tired from the day, please forgive me," he told her. He gave her a quick bow. "May you have a pleasant evening." The archer turned to go.

A hand on his arm and his name from her lips had him stopping and turning to her. There was something in her voice, a hitch, a catch… And then her lips were on his. A flutter grabbed his stomach and flipped it, and his hands wove their way through her hair around the back of her jaw without any conscious though on his part. He leaned into the kiss as her tongue begged entrance to his mouth. The knowledge of who and where he was slipped from his mind as she slid her hands over his shoulders to she was pressed flush against him. In an instant, it all came rushing back. With a groan, he broke contact with her and pulled back. She looked up at him, lids lowered, lips full from his kiss and slightly parted.

"Stay with me," she whispered. He could feel his resolve weaken.

"I—I would that I could," he replied raggedly. "But I cannot."

"Yes, you can."

"My vows—"

"Are not enacted right now. I know full well Elthina has not let you renew them…" The look she gave him set his insides on fire. "You can very well stay with no remorse. You _understand_, Sebastian. Like no one has. You know what it is like to be responsible for so many people…" Her tone was imploring, almost pleading.

He couldn't. He would never forgive himself. It would be as if he took advantage of her, regardless of her having asked him. He had not reached the level of atonement in his soul to feel worthy of her. Sebastian shook his head.

"I am no leader. Not yet. I do not know if I am worthy of that honour." His breath was all jagged edges and hidden lines of longing. He denied them both. "Hawke… I'm sorry. I cannot." Even so, his voice faltered and she heard it.

He grabbed her hand as she reached for him again.

"I cannot. Not right now," he whispered again, then pressed his lips against the inside of her wrist, tasting the flutter of her heartbeat. "Forgive me."

Before she could stop him again, he turned and all but fled out into the oncoming night. All she could do was stare at the door he had left open for a long while, feeling empty and alone inside.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Started out as a fill for a prompt, but I turned it into my own little thing when the story got a bit away from the prompt. Again, apologies for glaring mistakes and typos as per usual. Hopefully I'll get this screen issue resolved soon. Ish. Soonish.**

**It's so much fun to delve into motives and heads and the like.**


	2. Revel

**Celebration**

Maebh Hawke woke to a crisp coolness tingeing the air, and she breathed in deep. Scents of apple and spices drifted up from the kitchen, where she was sure Orana was cooking some delicious form of breakfast. No matter how she told the elf she wasn't a slave anymore, Orana seemed pleased to always make sure Hawke had meals whenever she spent enough time in her estate. The Champion of Kirkwall stretched languidly in bed, her mabari jumping onto it the moment he realised she was awake, nosing his huge muzzle against her side. She laughed, obligingly scratching behind his ears.

"Yes, I am in fact, awake," she told him. "And I will feed you shortly, Faolan." His stub of a tail went wild at that, and he tried to lick her face, though she managed to ward him off. "But, you have to let me get up first." He gave a soft woof and leapt over her onto the floor.

Hawke sat up and swung her legs over the bed to stand, reaching her hands toward the ceiling. Letting out a loud exhale, she dropped her arms to her sides and went to her wardrobe to dress for the day. For once, she didn't have any pressing matters or emergencies to tend to, so she decided for forgo her fighting leathers and take the rare occasion to dress more suitably to her sex. It wasn't that she didn't care for her leathers… but they did get old after a while, and she found she sometimes missed the swirl of soft fabric around bare ankles.

In light of the day and celebration of the change in season, she pulled out a grey-blue dress with two rows of trim along the bottom hem of rust and a muted gold-bronze. Oak leaves of the same two colours were skilfully embroidered down the outsides of the sleeves, which were snug to the elbow, where folds of fabric cascaded down while under-sleeves a slightly darker blue than the rest of the dress continued to he wrists. They tapered to a long triangle over the back of her hands, while stopping short on the underside, exposing the last two inches of her wrists for ease of movement. More oak leaves and acorns ran along the wide square neckline, leaving her collarbone bare almost to the shoulders before swooping down to hug the curves of her breasts. The dress fit snugly down to her hips, where it subtly and steadily flared out in large pleats to her ankles, making a wide flare around her if she were to spin in a circle. She chose a simple iron and copper-linked belt to settle around her lean hips, the extra length smoothing down the front of the dress. Old, comfortable leather slipshoes slid onto her feet with ease before she walked in front of her standing mirror. She let her auburn-red hair down, but then on a whim made two braids from each temple, securing them in the back with a loose leather string. She smoothed down flyaways and smiled at the way the minor accents of golds and rusts brought out flames in her hair.

Faolan nosed her hand with his head, and she smiled at him.

"Yes, yes," she chided. "Let's get both of us something to eat."

She led him from her chambers after tossing the coverlet over the top half of her bed, trying to muster a vague attempt at making it for posterity's sake. She was never one for keeping a tidy sleeping area; it wasn't like being exposed to air would make her sheets dirty, she reasoned. Giving up on it, she and the mabari made their way down the stairs, where Bodhan exclaimed his admiration of her choice of attire, while his adopted son clapped his hands, exciting Faolan.

"What's the occasion, messere?" Bodhan asked her as she spun around at his behest. When she stopped to face him, she shrugged, grinning.

"Because, Bodhan, for once, I _can_." With that, she strode to the kitchen, Faolan trotting after her with no need of encouragement on her part.

Orana was bent, looking into the oven as she entered and called out greeting. The sapling-thin elf straightened and gave Maebh a mild smile. She had been slowly opening up and becoming more comfortable as time went on, Hawke had noticed, much to her pleasure.

"You're starting at this early today," Hawke remarked cheerfully. "Not that I'm complaining, of course."

"I wish to have everything ready, messere," was the shy reply. It raised one of Hawke's eyebrows.

"Ready for what?" She finally noticed all the food Orana had already prepared—at least six pies, all of different fruits, a host of smaller pastries and tarts and honeyed oat cakes, four loaves of what smelled like garlic and rosemary bread, and two large pots Hawke supposed were vegetables in one form or another.

"What in the world are you cooking for? An army?" Maebh asked again, perching her hands on her hops and looking back at the elf woman.

Orana blushed deeply and stammered a little. "I—I'm sorry, messere. I should have told you. I found a cart with all these ingredients and a note requesting they be cooked for the festival today. I—I do love cooking, so I didn't see the harm—"

Hawke raised a hand to stop her apologies, smiling. "There's no need to back-pedal, Orana. I don't mind. But," she added as she sauntered over to a dish of pastries, plucking out an egg one. "I _will_ take breakfast as payment for using my cook and my kitchen." Maebh bit into the flaky pastry cup that held fluffed eggs, tasted cinnamon and sweetbutter in it, and felt her kneecaps melt a little. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she finished the bite.

"You are the best cook," she told Orana as she walked to the icebox by the wall to fish out a three-pound slab of aurochs meat to toss Faolan, who caught it mid-air. He shook it violently, tail wagging relentlessly, then plopped on the floor to start eating it.

"Oh, no you don't," Hawke warned him. "I don't want to have a pool of blood to clean up again." She held open a side door that revealed the small gardens her family estate boasted. "Outside."

The mabari let out a soft whine around the meat in his mouth, but went outside. Closing the door, Hawke took another bite of her egg pastry.

"I think I'm going to see what sort of excitement I can find today," she said thoughtfully. "The kind where I don't have to kill or threaten anybody." With all the mounting tension in the city recently, Hawke desperately hoped even criminals and thugs would want a day's respite from trying to muck things up and make life harder. Still, as she finished the pastry and left Orana to more cooking—at least one roast, from the smell of it—Hawke opted to fasten a thin leather belt below the iron and copper one that held a small but vicious dagger and a compact pouch containing a few essentials. It never hurt to be a little prepared.

"Heading out, messere?" Bodhan asked as she walked to the foyer.

"I think so. I've always loved the fall festival the most," she said, eyes alight. "After Orana is finished and sends all that food on its way, why don't you and Sandal drag her out of the house for your own bits of fun?"

"You're too kind, messere. But… mayhap we will."

Hawke bid the dwarves a final farewell before stepping out into the streets of Kirkwall's Hightown. She felt her heart lighten and her breath deepen the instant she took a cursory glance around. Almost all the houses had hung wreaths and buntings all done up in fall colours, bedecked with leaves, nuts, and small dried gourds. The trees were all variants of gold, orange, and rust; though the streets were all littered with a leafy carpeting, more than enough leaves remained on the trees proper to add splashes of colour all throughout the city. Someone had gone around and hung gourds and little wooden carvings from many of the trees, and Hawke found delight in all of them. She passed people out for a stroll by themselves or in couples, and greeted each warmly. Most of the women wore colourful garlands made from branches and leaves and berries in their hair, and everyone she saw wore something special for the festival day.

As she entered the Chantry Square, she found a small town of brightly coloured tents set up all over the middle. Revellers, musicians, out-of-town merchants had all set up wherever they liked in the giant, open area, giving visual and aural pleasures to all who meandered through the mini-streets their stalls had created—which was now the only way to cross the square. It was not an unwanted experience, and Hawke was enjoying herself even before she fully joined in on the festivities. She heard tunes she recognised from Ferelden played on whistle, fiddle, and pipe—Sweeney's Buttermilk, Flower of the Flock, and even Friel's Kitchen. She could have stayed there in the square and been entertained all the day's length. But something pulled her onward.

As she made her way to Lowtown, the decorations grew less well-crafted and lavish, but no less celebratory or colourful. Lowtown's streets were much the same as Hightown's though less new merchants filled the empty spaces simply because there was no one space large enough for them all to cluster. She spotted Varric and Merrill—the former wearing a leaf garland on his head, and the latter winding another garland around Bianca, still on Varric's back—and waved to them, but did not join them. There was a tickling in the back of her mind, a desire she couldn't place. Pausing a moment to accept a small mug of heated apple cider, Hawke decided to head north of the city on a whim. She had seen the festivals all up and down Kirkwall itself in past years, but it suddenly occurred to her she had never once gone beyond its walls.

Sipping carefully as she went, a few people stopped her now and again for bits of light conversation she did not mind in the least. Fall in Kirkwall had become one of her favourite seasons—Ferelden was cooler than Kirkwall, so it reminded her fondly of her birthplace, and it was always so colourful. She loved the contrast the bright trees made against the city buildings and skies, loved the snap of cool she scented in the air. It made her steps and her heart light, her mind clear. She didn't pay very close attention to where she was going, instead allowing her feet to guide her where they will. Soon, she found herself walking out the decorated walls of Kirkwall and into the lowlands surrounding the north and east sides of the city, the land surprisingly rich for farms, if the right sort of hardy crop was chosen. The faints sounds of bawdy music and loud laughter tickled her ears, and she finished her cider, hooking the mug on a spare loop on her pouch before eagerly following the sounds.

After maybe a half hour's walk, Hawke found herself coming to the outskirts of a small village, though it looked empty. A moment's looking revealed the reason—two large tent canopies and several smaller ones were set over and around a moderately large gathering of people in a nearby field. Their dress was colourful from a distance, though as she neared she could tell it was the type of attire only worn once a year for several years. By their chatter and jovial expressions, she somehow doubted they cared. Children were running around with painted leather masks on that were of an exceptionally high quality, she was surprised to see. She paused on the outskirts, looking in, and the dark auburn head of a tall man caught her eye. His tanned face crinkled with smiles, and his blue eyes were full of delight that made them light up more than usual. The edges of her lips curled up in a devilish smile as she watched Sebastian Vael mingle among commoners, looking just as at home as she imagined he would in a court. Hawke bit her lip as an idea struck her, and she stopped a gigging group of children that were about to run by her, crouching down to speak with them. A few of the older ones recognised her, and all crowded around. The masks they wore really were of top quality, and they told her they had a master leatherman in their village, Thom Tine, who made them in his spare time. She managed to talk an older child into giving up his mask with the help of a silver piece. It was shaped like a fierce bird of prey, painted bright blue, black, and cream colours. She sent the children off scampering as she tied the mask behind her head and stood. The holes for the eyes were slanted, and an orange rusty beak covered her nose, hooking down to cover half her mouth. Her cheekbones were covered by feathers almost shaped to look like small leaves, with black arrow stripes painted on some of them. A few of the adults wore masks, but they either had them pushed back on top of their heads, else they appeared to be mummers and performers. That would be no problem; she could play along just as well with the rest of them—at least to get by without risking much notice.

Hawke joined the crowd seamlessly, and found these rough-working people to be in the best spirits of all the groups she had passed. No one said anything about her mask, and as she moved through the crowd, she saw a number of young women and men with masks on that didn't seem part of the mummers or performers. She wondered about that. The smell of food drew her, and it occurred to her she had not eaten aside from the egg pastry, and that had been hours and miles ago.

Having lost sight of Sebastian for the moment, Hawke followed her nose until she heard a deep laugh and glanced to her left. Sure enough, Sebastian stood before a crowd of people again, chatting and laughing with them as she saw his shoulders and arms move. People stood in her way of telling what he was doing, so she wormed her way through and saw the host of food Orana had cooked splayed out on a long wooden table with a cloth draped over it. Sebastian stood on the other side, serving out food to the very young or the elderly that had trouble with it themselves. Everyone else seemed to be helping themselves where there was a space, so she picked a wooden bowl—it felt rough and handmade in her hands—and began dipping into dishes that she liked. She listened in on Sebastian's conversations as she neared, easily picking his rich brogue out of all other voices. Smile quirking her lips, she idly wondered if Orana knew it was Sebastian that wanted all this food and just didn't tell her, or if he really had hoodwinked them both.

Her little bowl was soon overflowing with food as she found herself standing directly in front of Sebastian. Her heart pounded in her chest, though she wasn't exactly sure why—what did it really matter if he recognised her or not? It seemed he didn't, though, as she looked directly in his eyes and he flashed a grin. The smile didn't hold any recognition in it that she could tell, so she merely smiled back as he spoke to her.

"Enjoying yourself, lass?" he asked and she felt her heart skip a beat. She nodded, and decided to keep quiet to see how long she could fool him into not knowing her.

A charming look filled his eyes, a glint of something she had never seen in them before. "Cat got your tongue?"

On impulse, she stuck the part in question out at him, then grabbed a warm biscuit from his hand and whisked away, taking a bite and melding back into the crowd. She heard him call something out, and a glance behind her found his bright blue eyes trying to search her out. Hawke laughed to herself, then slipped nimbly through the crowd to a secluded spot to eat her meal.

The Champion of Kirkwall found herself set up beside a troupe of musicians playing old tunes for a small group—and any within hearing. They all wore masks, as well-one a fox, two hares, and another bird, though it looked to be a robin rather than the fiercer raptor she wore. They played on a lute, fiddle, whistle, and a drum held sideways, with an open back in which the fox who played it had a hand. The tunes were lively and fast, having her feet tapping along without her knowing any of them as soon as she began listening. Several people were up dancing, while others watched and clapped. After she had finished her food, she clapped along as well.

Several other people sat around her, and she leaned over to one of them, in a badger mask, and asked,

"What are all these masks for?"

He cocked his head at her, and when he spoke his tone was quizzical. "You're wearing one and you don't know? Ah, well, by you're accent, I can tell you're not from here. The masks are worn by those whose loved ones have died recently, so when the Veil is its thinnest tonight, spirits who come from the Otherworld won't recognise them and take them, too." She saw a grin form on the lower half of his face, covered in stubble. "Also, lovers who have gone through or wish to go through the handbinding try and pick out their partners to see if they be true." He looked her up and down. "Mayhap you're the latter…?"

She laughed a bit, and shook her head. "I've gone through no handbinding," she replied.

"Just so! New lovers are sought out and caught tonight, too!" He leaned close and she smelled mulled spices, horses, and leather on him. It was not an unpleasant mixture. He held out his hand to her. "Dance?"

She hesitated only a moment. "Why not?"

Rough fingers closed around her palm as the man drew her up from her seat and into a quick dance. The steps were easy, and after the first two go arounds, she went as smoothly as he.

"Fereldens pick up quick," he laughed as she spun her around. She joined him, breathless.

They danced through the next two songs, after which she was Sebastian stalking through the crowd looking distracted, and begged apologies to leave. The man in the badger mask bowed and kissed the top of her knuckles in thanks, then went back to the music as she meandered closer to Sebastian without directly trying to intercept him. To her surprise, after he caught sight of her, he came her way.

"Do I know you?" he asked her. She had to bite back the chuckle that bubbled to her lips, shrugging instead. A smile quirked his lips. "All right, then, who are you?" She pointed to her mask. "A falcon?" He sounded amused. "I've never seen that one here, before."

Her smile broadened. She was infuriating him, she knew, and loved it. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned close enough to feel the heat coming off his body, hands held behind her back, and tilted her head up to touch his lips with the beak of her mask. He pulled back, startled with brows knit.

Unable to hold her laughter in, she whirled away as he tried to catch her arm. Again, she slipped away through the crowd of people, lither than he and able to squirm through tighter openings of people more easily. He lost her again, and she chuckled under her breath.

The rest of the afternoon Hawke drifted from circle to circle of musicians, sometimes listening, sometimes being caught up in a dance. Her favourite was when she was drawn into a large circle of people that moved side to side and got faster and faster until they all fell out of beat, laughing and clapping accolades to the musicians who bested their speed. She managed to avoid running into Sebastian again that whole time, though she could almost always keep him in sight, and she was sure he caught glimpses of her, but never got close enough for another encounter.

As the sun began to dip below the mountains and she took savouring bites from an oat cake dripping with honey, a cheer went up from the opposite side of the festival grounds, followed by a bright blaze of light. Quickly, she made her way to the source, the sounds of pipes cutting through the air, over all the chatter. She wove her way to a good viewpoint to see a tall masked man with a bag under his left arm, squeezing it like a bellows, while his fingers danced over a chanter, the higher notes accompanied by the bass and tenor drones that leaned back from the bag, tied together by bright cording. Beside him blazed a great bonfire, and when a number of drums joined the piper, the people nearest the blaze jumped into a dance, much to the delight of the rest of the crowd. Children ran amuck through everything, some trying to dance, others merely playing.

And then she saw him. He was silhouetted against the flames, but she knew instantly it was Sebastian. He was slightly hunched over to dance with a little girl, who Hawke imagined was giggling with mirth. She barely noticed her own face was split into a grin as her heart filled with warmth, watching him. When the song changed, he sent the little girl off with the other children, and took a few steps closer to the surrounding crowd, watching those still dancing with a broad smile on his face, illuminated by the flames. She couldn't take her eyes from him. One of the few times she had seen him in clothing other than his mail and armour, Sebastian wore a long-sleeved tunic that laced at the throat, though he let it fall open, laces loose and baring flesh almost mid-chest to the hollow of this throat. It was belted around his narrow hips, the cream colour of the tunic dyed orange by the firelight, red and gold accents set ablaze. His breeches were dark, as were his boots, and it wasn't until she moved closer that she saw the falcon emblem with two arrows in its talons embroidered on his tunic. That was why he sounded amused when identifying her mask as a falcon, she realised. The bonfire set his dark auburn hair on fire, with shadows playing over his face. She looped out into the crowd to come up soundlessly behind him, appearing suddenly at his side.

It took him a moment to realise she was there, and he started a little, but smiled at her anyway. A fiddle took up a tune she knew, and she held out a hand to him, which he took after a moment's look at her. She imagined him still trying to figure out the face behind the falcon mask. The fiddle started slow at first, then gradually sped up until they were whirling in each other's arms and the music was the only thing in her world besides Sebastian. By the time the tune finished, they were both breathless and laughing, holding one another to keep standing.

He drew her off to the side, by a copse of trees. They still stood in the light of the fire, but less people were this far out. He looked down at her, leaning slightly against a tree. She didn't move when he reached a hand out to lightly graze the cheek feathers of her mask. Hawke felt her pulse speed in her throat. Something dark lurked in his eyes, in the way his breath was still deeper than normal.

"Do you celebrate Moramhain for the dead, the handbinding, or the heart?" he murmured.

She felt herself blush and was glad the mask covered it. This was a side of Sebastian she had never seen before, not without instigating something first. Hawke's anger flashed momentarily to think this was how he acted around peasant girls, when he wasn't sputtering excuses to her about the Chantry, about vows not renewed. And then he leaned in close to her and pushed the mask back a little, just enough so he could capture her lips with his. All thought fluttered out her head as she tasted him-warm, mulled cider and whisky. His fingers twined through her hair and he pulled her against him, her hands pressing against the firm mass of his broad chest. She had no idea how much or how little time passed before he drew his mouth back. Her mind still reeled pleasantly from his kiss, but her thoughts snapped back together when he leaned close to her ear and murmured in it, his voice low and snaking in to wrap around her mind like wisps of smoke.

"The falcon is mine," he said, and she swore she heard a smile in his voice. "If you don't want to be as well, a hawk would suit you better next time."

The realisation that he knew who she was hit her like a hammer, and even as she pulled away to say something to him, she felt his heat leave her. She looked up to see a wolfish grin on his face, teeth bared and a predatory look in his eyes. He winked at her, then turned and slipped back into the crowd. A hand went up to her lips, still tingling with warmth and wet from his, and it took a moment or two for her brain to kick-start into motion again. By the time she went after to find him, he really was nowhere to be found.

After another hot drink, Hawke headed back to Kirkwall herself, the music still driving into the night as it slowly faded from her hearing. Hawke kept the mask, however, fingering the smooth, tooled leather as she walked, a quirk of a smile perched on her lips.

"Devil of man," she said aloud, as the outer wall of the City of Chains came into view.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I want fall to be here. And a dress like Hawk's.**

**Moramhain = "MORE-ah-vain"; Old tongue for the day when the Veil is thinnest, and spirits of the dead most able to come to the living world. It is the time for reaping harvest, and slaughtering and salting the livestock that is to last through the winter. Couples that went through a handbinding the year before decide if they wish to stay together and go through the second, permanent handbinding, or if they wish to part ways in search of a better-suited lover.**

**I was going to provide links with the things that inspired this story... except I can't figure out how to imbed links into this document. So, if anyone would like to let me know how to do that so they actually work, I will edit this and provide links and the like.**


	3. Reunion

**Reunion**

"Your Highness, you must—"

"If you would just pause a moment and listen to—"

"Don't you think you've practiced enough for—"

Sebastian whirled away from his pestering courtiers, turning his back to them as he moved in rhythm, brows knit together in concentration. It was good practice, he told himself, to try to keep mistakes out of his steps even as a small host of lords tried to distract him.

Finally, one of them bumped into the piper, who fell off beat as he missed a few notes. The man glowered at the lord who had caused his error, while Sebastian relaxed his arms and looked skyward, a light sheen of sweat coating his broad chest and back, his breath slightly heavier. He rolled his shoulders back and turned in a fluid movement to face the courtiers. The look on his face stopped all the questions forming on their lips, and he held them all in a steady glare.

"Now that you've thoroughly interrupted what little spare time I have set away to practice, what do you wall want? And one at a time," he reminded them.

"Sire, why must you practice so often when there are matters of state to address?" a younger man in dark blue breeches and a cream shirt asked.

"Believe it or not, Pherson, this actually _does_ pertain to a matter of state."

"Do you honestly think she'll come?" another man asked.

Sebastian smiled, a devilish quirk of his lips. "Oh, I know she will. I will make sure of it."

Lost in thought and imagination, the Prince of Starkhaven only half-heard everything else they said.

* * *

><p>Fall passed to winter, and winter began to melt into spring and he still had not received any word from her. Finally, a few weeks before the lambing season began, a letter came by bird.<p>

His advisor came to him in his private study, finding Sebastian hunched over a writing desk, frowning down at the papers his treasurer had given him.

"Sire," the elder man said by way of announcement, knocking on the open door as well, for good measure.

"Hmm? Come in, Reginald," Sebastian replied, distracted. He scratched a few numbers on a separate paper, comparing it to the other.

"A bird arrived this morning," Reginald told him, entering the room. "She'll be here in two weeks' time." He laid the letter on the prince's desk.

"That's nice—wait, _she_ will be here?" Realisation jerked Sebastian's head up, and he looked at Reginald's face before searching out the letter on his desk, snatching it up.

His fingers skimmed briefly over the broken red wax seal of an image of a hawk with a blade held vertical in each taloned foot. His stomach fluttered and he opened the letter to greedily read the words she had writ him.

_Things have finally settled, and I can steal away for a while. See you in two weeks._

It wasn't signed, nor even addressed to him, save for his name scrawled on the outside of the letter. Even if that had not been there, he would have known whom it was from. He knew her handwriting and tone, if nothing else. He couldn't keep a broad smile from splitting his face.

"She'll be just in time for the gardens to be in full bloom," he mused, then stood, meeting Reginald's eye. "Come, we have many preparations to make and only two weeks to get it all in order."

The advisor raised a bushy grey eyebrow. "I thought you didn't want to make a big to-do about it, sire?"

The Prince of Starkhaven gave a shrug. "I don't. But I _do_ want it all to be just so. And I want it to look effortless." His brows knit. "I should practice a wee bit more, too…"

"Careful you do not overdo it," Reginald warned. "You already know it; don't let your mind into it too much. We certainly wouldn't want you to misstep and ruin the whole thing."

Sebastian's look turned incredulous. "What unerring faith you show in me, Reginald." He shook his head before his advisor could reply. "I just... I'm not offended. Please round up the two best seamstresses—Margaret and Eileen, I think—and Horace. I want her dress and the food to be more than prepared for her arrival."

"You're sure of her answer, then?"

The grin Sebastian flashed was pure confidence. "I wouldn't go through all this plotting and planning otherwise."

"Very well, then, sire. I'll send the cook and ladies to your solar immediately." They older man gave a quick bow, then retreated from the room, a secret smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He hadn't seen his prince this excited or sure of himself since he wrested the throne from his incompetent cousin.

Sebastian, the treasury numbers quite forgotten, strode out of his study and into his private suit of rooms to rummage in an old chest for a simple wooden box. It was plain and obviously very old, but he held it reverently. Blowing some of the dust from the top, he opened it carefully, a fond look softening his features as he looked down at his grandmother's ring. It was silver inlaid with small lapis lazuli, around which intricate knotwork wove. The centrepiece was a vibrant moonstone, sparkling iridescent in the light. The deep blue-purple satin it rested in only brought more attention to the delicate stone, and he bit his lip to think of how it would sit upon her finger. Sebastian was more than confident she would agree to his proposition. Closing the box, he set it own his wooden dresser and headed to his solar.

They were waiting for him when he arrived, and bowed or curtsied as was appropriate. He was impatient, however, and waved off the formalities to get down to business. To the seamstresses, he described the dress he envisioned in his family colours, both the tartan and in solid panels. When asked, he had no clue what her size was, but he described her proportions to them as best he could—without his thoughts trailing to other details and uses for the way she was curved—and the two women nodded, mentally sketching his vision in their own heads. To the master cook, he started to describe what he wanted before the stout man cut him off and finished the list for him, better than what Sebastian had in him. The prince smiled sheepishly.

"I suppose I should leave the details up to the experts," he remarked, receiving a chuckle of agreement.

"Donnae worry," Horace said in his thick, rural burr. "I cooked for yer da _and_ yer grandda at times like these—I've got it maire than handled."

Sebastian clapped the elder man on the shoulder, then the three servants took their leave. Excited and bounding with energy, he felt the need to burn it off. Despite Reginald's caution of over-practicing, Sebastian wanted to make sure he had it perfect—besides, he needed to practice it wearing what he intended to surprise her with, and it had been a while since he wore his family tartan kilt; he knew the swinging fabric would throw him off slightly. Swiftly, he went back to his rooms and dug around in the closet for his old kilt, and was dismayed to find it was a bit too tight around his waist.

"I didn't think I'd gained any weight," he bemoaned to Margaret when he took the garment to her.

She gave him a sharp look through the grey strands of hair that had fallen from her bun.

"And how _long_ has it been since you last wore it?"

"Before I was sent to the—to Kirkwall."

Margaret shook her head. "You were but a young man then, and that's over ten years passed." She clucked her tongue at him. "You're in fine, fitting shape for your age, my Prince, but you're no longer twenty." At his sigh, she chuckled and beckoned him closer. "Come, you're even more handsome than you were then, and with a better head on your shoulders. Now come _here_," she unceremoniously pulled him closer, "and let me get your new measurements so I can fix this."

"Will I be able to practice in it?"

"Och, to be sure. I should be done with this no later than tomorrow."

Sebastian smiled and let her fuss over him a while longer, conversation turning to fond memories of his family.

Robbed of his idea to practice in full attire, Sebastian found himself wandering the halls of his youth, half his mind preoccupied with the future, half the past. He had terrorised these halls as a child and young man, and worried his mother sick when he had discovered a string of hidden passages. He had decided to investigate them and vanished for four days doing so. He recalled how she had wept when she found him in the topmost wine cellar, embracing him tightly to make sure he was all right—right after which she had spanked him soundly. Sebastian chuckled at the hellion he had been.

He did not wander too much longer before the treasurer found him, requesting he look at the numbers Hawke's letter distracted him from. He told the man he would get right back to them, but his thoughts went immediately back to Hawke as he walked back to his study. Everyone would have to stop calling her Hawke, he mused, because he didn't intend for it to remain her surname for much longer.

"Maebh Vael," he said aloud as he entered the study. "Has a nice ring to it."

Two weeks passed all at once too slowly and too quickly for Sebastian. Margaret had altered his kilt to fit perfectly again—and reassured him it was only an inch more than it used to be—and he had finally convinced his advisors to leave him be while he practiced. He had snapped when one of them pestered him so much he stumbled for a moment and knocked one of the swords out of place. The noble had fled when Sebastian turned to unleash his fury upon the man, and the others then left him alone when he announced his intent to practice. His years in the Chantry gave him calm and compassion, yes, but his temper was still explosive when provoked enough.

But, the day had finally arrived and a messenger ran into the training ground where he was impatiently passing the time hitting the bull's-eye of every target in front of him.

"Sire," the young man called breathlessly.

Sebastian didn't move except to release the arrow, its fletching having caressed his cheek moments before. He turned without bothering to see where it landed—he knew he hit his mark.

"Aye?" Since coming back to Starkhaven, his accent had thickened slightly—back to normal, to his ears. As much as he had come to love his life in Kirkwall, he had dearly missed the more familiar cadences of speech his native land had.

"She's here—Messere Viscountess—I mean, Viscountess Hawke."

A smile spread across Sebastian's face even as butterflies filled his gut.

"Thank you," he told the boy. "Go let Reginald and the others know, and then take a breath to sit. No need to run yourself out."

As impatient and restless as he had been the past two weeks—the past three years, really—he now felt surprisingly calm. Without bothering to change, he merely slung his bow across his back and rested a casual hand on the practice quiver that hung at his left side, much like a swordsman rested his hand on a pommel to stay relaxed but ready for action if need be. He arrived in the throne hall moments before Hawke, just enough time for Reginald to give Sebastian a disapproving look at his casual attire and sweaty demeanour. The man under scrutiny merely smiled and shrugged. She'd seen him worse off, his expression said, but neither had the time to say anything before the doors swung open and the herald tried to stop her from striding into the hall even as he began to call out her titles in formal address.

"Uh—Presenting Viscountess Hawke, Champion of—"

"Can it," the all-too familiar voice said loudly. "I think he knows who I am."

"Then, let me announce Messere Tethras—"

"Don't even bother, little bird. His Princeliness knows us, too." The dwarf's gruff voice brought a smile to Sebastian.

And then she came into view and Sebastian's breath caught in his throat. He didn't even see the few others trailing behind her, and he felt his heart thud in his ears. Hawke had let her hair grow out, and it was half pulled back in a leather strap, half spilling down her shoulders in an unruly tumble. She wore snug, dark riding leathers and gloves, with a black coat to ward off the early spring chill—she had heeded his warning that the winds could still be bitter in his mountains, even after the first blooming. Both her clothing and face were dirty from the ride, but it did nothing but enhance the beauty of her smile and her eyes. The only difference regarding her station as Viscountess that he saw was the small ermine border and cuffs of her coat. Other than that, she looked the same old Hawke.

"Hawke," he said, unable to stop the grin from splitting his face, unable to stop his feet from descending the stairs to greet her.

Before she could say anything, he swept her off her feet and spun her around in an enveloping embrace. For that moment, he could bury his nose in her hair as it fell through the soft fur of her coat, smelling of cinnamon and loam, that gentle earthy smell of her he had dreamt of so often. He finally had to set her feet back on the ground and stepped back, admiring her. Her face was flushed and a bemused smile perched on her lips. He had surprised her with his greeting.

"You're looking well, Hawke," he said, unashamed of his actions. "Being in charge suits you."

"As it does you, Sebastian. I'm not sure I've ever seen you _beam_ so much," she remarked to him.

_Part of that's you_, he added silently. He would tell her soon enough. For now, he looked beyond her to see whom she brought. Varric stood slightly to her left, looking immutable as ever, save for longer hair as well, and next to him was Fenris. The elf looked worse for wear on the surface, especially with a black patch covering his right eye, but his relaxed stance and small smile told Sebastian his rough exterior belied how he felt. Behind those two old friends, stood another man and woman Sebastian didn't recognise, but they were both dressed as nobles, though not overly so. As he stepped forward to greet Varric and Fenris, the dwarf held up his hand.

"Don't pick me up and twirl me around, Choir Boy. I'm too close to the ground to like the thought of being air-born. And as amusing as it was to watch you do that to Hawke, I don't think I'd warrant the same reaction."

Sebastian laughed and clasped hands with the shorter man. "Trust me, Varric, I never intended to do such. I'd wager you're solid and heavy as granite, and I wouldn't want to pull something important."

Varric's eyes widened a second as he registered Sebastian—chaste, too-good-to-be-true, brother-of-the-Chantry Sebastian—was making a quip at his expense before erupting in laughter.

"Oh, I like this new you," the dwarf said. "Looks like leading an army and storming the castle finally got you to loosen up!"

"Looks like," Sebastian agreed, then turned to Fenris.

The dark elf stood silent, as Sebastian recalled was his wont, but he definitely seemed more at ease. Sebastian's face softened and they clasped hands, as well, before embracing.

"How have you fared, my friend?" the archer asked him.

A good-natured snort came in reply. "Other than a particularly nasty crow and I not seeing eye to eye… More than well."

"I want the whole story once you've settled and have the time."

Fenris waved him off. "It's really not that interesting or heroic.

"He's right," interjected Hawke, and Sebastian glanced back at her. "When he said 'crow', he was being literal. No Antivans."

"A bird?" His eyes darted back to the elf. "Now I _definitely_ have to hear that story."

Varric rubbed his clean-shaven chin as he watched this man they once knew as Sebastian Vael. "You really have changed, Choir Boy."

Sebastian smiled down at him. "Probably because it's 'Choir Boy' no longer."

"Sounds like you've got some of your own tales to tell."

He shook his head. "After you've settled in and cleaned up." His eyes moved to the two people he didn't know, remembering them. "Who are your new friends, Hawke?"

She clucked her tongue at herself, chiding. "My manners haven't changed in the least, as you can see. These are serrahs Raven and Brently." The woman bowed at the first introduction and the man at the latter. "Might I introduce my old, dear friend, Sebastian Vael, master plucker and, consequently, Prince of Starkhaven."

His lips twitched at her teasing nickname for his unparalleled ability with a bow as he gave Raven and Brently a courtly bow. The woman had hair dark as the wing of her namesake, windblown and cascading down her back in gentle ringlets. She carried herself as if she could hold her own in a battle, and did not smile, but gave a courteous nod to him. The man Brently gave an easy smile, and Sebastian instantly did not like him. He was broad and good-looking, with a shock of chestnut hair that reflected both red and gold in the light.

"They are…?"

"My personal retinue. Aveline sent Raven to play bodyguard and helping hand should we run into trouble on the way, since she couldn't make it herself." At Sebastian's questioning look, she explained, "It'd be a bit hard on a woman seven months pregnant to come out here and back again."

Delight shone through his face. "I must send her my congratulations and a gift. I am truly glad she found happiness with her Donnic." He noticed she didn't give further information on Brently. "And I imagine he plays much the same part?"

"Sort of, but in a more political way."

His brows knit some. There was something odd in the way she answered, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"No matter. I have rooms and baths enough for everyone. Once we have all washed up, we'll meet in the small hall for lunch—there will be servants to show you the way." With a final grin to his old companions, he allowed his retainers to lead them to the wing of the castle he'd set aside for their stay.

When they reconvened for lunch at his request, he had the cook prepare fish and egg pie, but also less regional dishes in case the strong Starkhaven dish didn't agree with his friends' palettes. To his surprised, Varric enjoyed the pie, and to his delight, Hawke did as well. Fenris took a sniff of it, declared it too rich and overpoweringly of fish, and stuck to the simpler dishes.

"How long do you plan to stay in Starkhaven?" Sebastian asked as they ate.

"Just got here and already trying to get rid of us?" Hawke teased.

"Just a gauge on how much food and sleep I should prepare to lose," he countered around a glass of light white whisky.

"Oh, you plan on losing sleep?" Hawke's voice took on that lost smoke it always had when she flirted. It sunk into Sebastian's veins like it had never left and he felt a tightening of desire settle in his belly.

"I suppose it does depend on how much of my fine whisky I'm persuaded to consume and how long Varric takes to regale what's happened in Kirkwall since I left to retake my home.

The dwarf in question shook his head, still disbelieving. "You know, it's really hard to believe you're the same pious man spouting 'Maker this' or 'Maker that' for so many years."

"It's difficult to be a good ruler _and_ a pious man at the same time, I've found." Sebastian looked at Hawke. "I think it just took a while for it to sink in, that I'm much more useful to people as a leader, and would have been wasted in the Chantry."

She graced him with a knowing smile, remembering their lengthy conversations in her library as each worked to convince the other to take up a ruling position. The look did not go unnoticed by either Varric or Fenris, though neither commented on it.

"So," Hawke said as they finished their meals. "When do we get the two-sovereign tour?"

Sebastian made a vague motion with his hand. "Whenever you like. Now, tomorrow—it doesn't matter."

Hawke looked at her two companions. "I don't know about anyone else, but I am positively beat. How does tomorrow sound?"

"Sounds just fine, Hawke, just fine."

* * *

><p>The next day, after they ate a late breakfast, Sebastian led them through the stronghold of his youth, sharing histories of the castle and fond memories with each notable room. In some, giant and ancient tapestries hung from the walls, and he took the time to shape each story. He knew he couldn't weave a tale anywhere near as well as Varric, or even Hawke, but he tried his best to keep things entertaining. He even joked about becoming a dull old man now that he was settling into the role of Prince.<p>

"If you're a dull old man, Sebastian Vael, then I'm a hook-toothed old spinster," Hawke declared.

"Oh, anything but, _síe criedhen_," he said to her in a low voice, full of hidden meaning.

Though she didn't know the meaning of his endearment, she blushed lightly, unsure of how to react to his burning eyes.

Fenris cleared his throat, breaking the moment. "A very fine castle," he said.

"So far as castles go, it is quite… homey," Varric added.

Sebastian broke eye contact with Hawke and grinned at them. "Ah, but you haven't even seen the best part." He beckoned them to follow as he went through a door that opened up to a stone spiral staircase. He bounded up two at a time like an excited boy showing off, but Varric lagged further back, his shorter legs unable to propel him at the same speed as Sebastian's long ones.

"Old man my ass," he huffed, then called ahead, "Go ahead, don't wait for the _dwarf_."

Laughter echoed through the staircase, and he saw they waited for him at the top of the stairs on a landing. The only thing at the top aside from arrow slits was a heavy wooden door with studded iron bands at the top and bottom. Sebastian eased it open, allowing them to exit before him, out onto the windy top of the castle's highest tower. All three visitors felt words and breaths escape them as they took in the rolling landscape that unfolded beneath them. Forests and fields alike dotted the ground, with the wide Minater snaking through it all like an enormous blue serpent, the head and tail of it vanishing in opposite directions. To the north rose imposing mountains of nigh impossible heights, the tallest crags vanishing into the clouds. Throughout the countryside, splashes of colour told them most flowering plants were in full bloom, and it was easy to see why Sebastian had chosen to come back in the end.

"Maker, Sebastian," Varric breathed after a long while.

"What a far cry from Kirkwall," Fenris murmured.

"It really is a wonder you stayed as long as you did," Hawke said last, wonderment softening her voice like a prayer.

"I had good reasons to stay," he said, utterly unable to keep himself from beaming with pride over his homeland. "But it's bone-achingly cold in the winter and much harsher than

Kirkwall. But," he added, a growl of possessiveness none had heard in his voice before, causing them to all turn and look at him. He stared directly at Hawke. "It's _mine_."

Her cheeks rosied darkly under the heat of his look, again, and she turned back to the beauty of his lands, the wind whipping at her hair.

"It's a land to be proud of," she said, hugging herself. He suddenly realised she probably wished she had her coat; the wind could be biting at this height.

He worried his bottom lip in thought, as Fenris caught his eye. The elf looked deliberately at Hawke, then headed for the door. Varric patted his arm as he followed suit, giving a knowing wink before they closed the door quietly behind them, leaving him alone with Hawke.

He came to stand next to her, startling her with his silent arrival, and she glanced around quickly to find their other two friends gone.

"Where," she began.

"Back inside," he answered, watching her. She nodded and he moved closer, putting an arm around her back. He felt her stiffen momentarily, unsure. "I should have told you to bring your coat.

She gave a wry smile, not looking up at him, not relaxing back into him. "That would have ruined the surprise."

"I'm glad you finally decided to come," he told her softly.

She bit her lip. "Sebastian, I—"

"I'm also glad to hear you took up role as Viscountess," he continued, not giving her room to finish. There were so many words waiting to pour from his lips, so many connections his fingers ached to create.

"The people practically begged me to," she replied. "After how much you always believed in me, how much you told me the city did…" She shook her head. "How could I not?"

"Is it everything you feared it would be?" he teased.

This time, she did look up at him. "Is being Prince?"

He laughed. "It's hard work, to be sure. But, I've never been one to back down from a challenge. Not when I've set my mind to it. It's… satisfying, pulling a dying principality back from the brink of destruction and make it prosperous again."

She nodded. "Things have really improved in Kirkwall—especially for the Fereldans." He smiled at that.

"Our exports and domestic trading have nearly tripled since a year and a half ago when I wrested the throne from my cousin," Sebastian said. "Trade flows freely on the Minanter again and the people have hope."

"They're rebuilding the Chantry," Hawke said quietly. The statement took any other words from his mind, and old flames of hurt burned his heart again.

"I—That's good to hear," he said finally.

They both stared in silence at the rolling hills for a while. Sebastian didn't see any of it as he relived that day three years ago.

"Do you regret that I—"

"Do you?" She cut him off sharply. He knew she didn't want to hear him say the words.

No hesitation came over him. "No," he replied. "I only regret I couldn't save those people." His throat tightened. He was still dealing with the guilt and anger he felt over Elthina's death, over the death of so many innocent lives, but it was more muted than before.

"As do I. I regret I couldn't stop him." Hawke seemed to grow smaller as her shoulders sagged. He gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

"I don't think you could have been able, Hawke. He would have done something similar, if not the same thing, but in a different place—or even the same place—no matter who he had gotten to help him, unwittingly or no. I place no blame on you."

"I do."

He pursed his lips and let out a sigh. He turned her to face him, took both her hands in his. Her fingers were chilled, and he enclosed his warm ones around hers. His new life made him bold again, and so did his confidence, so he found himself bringing her fingers to his lips, his breath hot on her skin.

"The blood is not on your hands," he said in a low voice, barely above a whisper. He kissed her fingers to emphasise his point, drawing a small noise of surprise from her throat. "Else they would not be as pretty as they are."

He lifted his eyes from their hands to hers, and found them wide, suspicious.

"Sebastian… What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Things I should have done years go, things I tried to convince myself I was unworthy of doing." He felt her pulse quicken in her wrists.

"Then don't mince words with me, Sebastian. Be blunt," she demanded.

He relinquished the hold of one of his hands to weave it through the hair at the back of her head, pulling her lips against his own in a claiming kiss. She made another noise of surprise and then melted into him. He released her hands entirely and slid his free fingers to the small of her back, tugging her against him. Her hands pressed into his chest, pinned, and he felt intoxicated. When he finally broke the kiss, she kept her eyes closed for a moment, lips slightly parted.

"Why speak at all, then?" he murmured.

"Oh," was all she breathed. When she opened her eyes to look at him again, dark with desire. It sent a surge down his spine to see confirmation of his hopes that she felt the same as he.

"Did you plan this?"

"This? No." Not entirely, was his silent amendment. But so much more. "I've learned to go with the flow of things," he said, leaning in to kiss her again.

He went slowly this time, giving her the option to pull away if she wanted. She did hesitate, but only for a moment, then met his mouth with hers. Her hands slid up over his broad shoulders, and he tightened his arm around her waist so they were flush. The wind blew her scent into his nostrils, and he lost himself in her, unaware of the low rumble that came from his chest. It was Hawke who broke the kiss the second time, and rested her forehead on his collarbone. He felt her shaking.

"Hawke? Are you well? Cold or…?" He trailed off, not wanting to admit he might have overstepped his bounds.

"Cold and, well, surprised." She was always honest in her answers, no matter the circumstance, and he loved her for it.

"Not insulted? Pushed?"

She shook her head. "No, none of those. Let's go inside."

He nodded and led the way, opening the door for her. He was mildly worried he'd only succeeded in making things awkward between them, and his grand plans would crumble down around his ears. Then, as she passed him to go through the open doorway, she trailed fingers light as feathers across his abdomen. Unable to keep the smile from his face, he watched her descend the stairs before him.

They found Varric speaking quietly with Reginald and Brently, but when Sebastian's advisor caught sight of him, he murmured something and the other two turned.

"Quite the view, eh?" Varric grinned as he joined Hawke and Sebastian. The short crossbowman was up to something, Sebastian knew.

"Indeed," Hawke murmured in reply, and the Prince himself opted out of answering. He respected and liked Varric, even if he felt he couldn't always trust his words.

"Where did Fenris go?" he asked instead.

"Aw, don't tell me you got Hawke to travel all this way just to spend your time with Mr. Broody?" Varric teased. "Isn't she much prettier?"

Sebastian met the dwarf's gaze and decided he was definitely up to something. It seemed to involve putting him and Hawke together, however, so he'd let Varric think he was oblivious.

"Of course she is. But I would like to catch up with him first. An appetizer before the main dish." He cast Hawke a look and watched her lower her eyes.

Sweeping one last look over Varric and Brently, Sebastian tightened his jaw and set off to locate Fenris. The elf he knew and called friend would be straightforward with him.

* * *

><p>"Somehow, I figured I'd find you in here," Sebastian remarked, leaning against the doorway of the stables.<p>

"There aren't many horses in Kirkwall," Fenris replied, not taking his eyes from the dark roan in front of him. "I've missed them. Their grace and power is underestimated, I think, but their silent natures."

"I would say the same for you, had I not seen you in action." Sebastian pushed off the frame to walk over to his friend. "Why did Hawke agree to come? Was it really just to visit an old friend, or is there more behind it than that?"

Fenris met his eyes with his favoured unreadable expression.

"Why did you invite her out? Was it just to see an old friend, or was there something else you wanted?" He threw Sebastian's words back at him.

The prince narrowed his eyes. "Just who is Brently?"

A silent battle of wills ran its course between the two men before Fenris relented, tilting his head away, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"You _have_ changed, my friend. You're stronger." He grew serious as he looked back at Sebastian, one hand still idly resting on the roan's neck. "Brently is one of Hawke's suitors."

"'One of'?"

"I believe Varric's last count was at sixteen, so, yes. One of."

He wasn't surprised to hear she had so many, but he felt jealousy in his gut. "Why would she bring him here?"

"He's also one of her ambassadorial advisors."

"Does she think she needs an ambassador to talk with me?" Sebastian was taken aback at the thought.

Fenris's mouth drew into a tight line, and Sebastian could not for the life of him figure out what was hidden in the elf's eyes.

"Perhaps you should ask her yourself."

A frustrated noise escaped him as he spun on his heel and stalked back to his castle proper. So much for his close friend giving him a straight answer.

"Andraste's flaming ass," he growled to himself.

"And swearing even?" Varric's voice came from behind him as he entered through a side chamber. "You go away three years, wage a war to reclaim your homeland, and everything about you changes."

He couldn't help but smile. "How dare I. You seem enthralled by the fact that I turned out to be like everyone else." Sebastian turned to see the dwarf in a simple shirt and breeches with an old book in his hands. He snapped it shut as he sauntered closer to the prince. He gave a shrug to Sebastian's observation.

"I'm still reeling from it, I suppose. Broody not giving you the answer you wanted?"

He wouldn't give Varric the satisfaction. "Answer? I just wanted to catch up, Varric."

His short companion laughed as they began walking the halls.

"I like the new Choir Boy."

"I'll take that as a compliment, despite coming from you."

It wasn't until dinner when he saw Hawke again. He would have searched her out, but Reginald came to him with a stack of paperwork he needed to read and initial, and he only got out of it when his stomach rumbled loudly. He was not pleased to see Hawke sitting next to Brently, her head bowed closer to him in low conversation. Sebastian took his seat between Fenris and Raven, across Varric and Hawke. They had already started eating.

"We thought you wouldn't be joining us, your Princeliness," Varric said after washing down a bit with ale.

"I had begun to fear that myself," he replied, eagerly filling his plate. His servants had balked when he first came and refused to wait until someone brought him a ready-made plate. He told them he didn't take his home back from pampered nobles and corrupt politicians just to become one himself. He had grown far too accustomed to fending for himself, and he didn't intend to give that freedom up. After the first year, they got used to it.

"So," Hawke said, breaking her conversation with Brently off as soon as Sebastian sat. "What is there to do for fun around here?"

He grinned at her. "Depends on the sort of fun you're looking for."

"You know me—the most life-threatening kind."

"You can always pick a fight in one of the pubs, but I did have other things in mind."

"Yes, I've evolved to a more refined danger-seeking woman, no longer satisfied with mere bar fights." She smirked as that brought laughter. "Honestly, I do have higher standards as Viscountess."

"I should hope so." Sebastian could not keep the hint of jealousy from his tone, nor stop the glance he shot Brently.

"What did you have in mind?" Fenris asked, diverting his attention.

"Falconing," he said. "Fitting, I think. Especially since we've recently trained a lovely hawk."

"Haha," Hawke said sarcastically. "You're a clever one, Sebastian. It can be like a battle of sigils."

Sebastian flashed a wolfish grin. "I _have_ told you the falcon was mine."

"And now you have a hawk, too," Varric said, picking up on the double meaning.

"So to speak." He cleared his throat. "I have bird for everyone—save your entourage, Hawke. I wasn't expecting them. I hope I haven't offended?" He pointedly looked at Raven rather than Brently.

The black-haired woman shook her head, then spoke for the first time. Her voice was low, a smoky alto. "Of course not, your highness. I am content merely to accompany."

"As am I," Brently added in a surprisingly tenor voice.

"Good." Sebastian bit back snide comments that leapt to his tongue, opting to dive into his food instead.

He kept the conversation light the rest of the evening, for once glad he had learned the pleasantries of keeping court to not let his displeasure show. He told himself he should be happy to see Hawke and his friends, and that he shouldn't worry about some ambassador after the kisses he and Hawke had shared. Her silence about them afterward and her casual avoidance of being alone with him bothered him a little, but he planned on talking to her about things between them, anyway, and did not let the thought weight on his mind after that first night.

He was up in the predawn, a time that, nowadays, was truly and only his. He stretched in the cool air and smiled at the dew clinging to everything. He liked to take this time to run along the river. He ran for nearly an hour before he got back to the garden wall, where he dipped his hands in the water to splash on his face. It was cold and sent a shiver over him, welcome though it was. Normally, he'd take his grandfather's bow out to the training grounds for a the next hour or so, until his stomach complained for breakfast, but today he went to the mews.

Gerun, the head falconer, was already there feeding the birds, and he greeted Sebastian with a grunt as the prince walked down his favoured bird, a peregrine falcon he named Aidan. She landed heavily on the thick leather glove he put on his left hand and burbled at him as he scratched her chest feathers with a finger.

"How many today?" Gerun asked, not looking at the archer.

"Three more besides Aidan. One of them Durian."

"The hawk?"

"For the Viscountess Hawke."

"Ah. Fitting. Makes sense now."

Sebastian helped feed the rest of the birds, giving a small extra piece to Aidan before he left. He remembered his parents keeping a full rookery, but it had been nearly empty when he finally took the stronghold back, a mere shadow of what it once was. He was pleased to see Gerun still tended it, however—he never knew a man more suited to his job.

His companions found him poring over papers at breakfast, which he was halfway through.

"Ah, the duties of office never stop," Hawke said fondly. He looked up to reply, but his breath caught.

She had chosen to dress more regally today, in dark greys and terra cottas, with silver buckles and accents to set it all off. Her hair was bound in a loose braid that fell to her mid-back, and was held with a dark blue ribbon. Though her clothing was cloth and leather, suitable for a day of riding, it hugged in all the right places, and revealed most of her collarbone. Around her neck was a pewter pendant of wolves howling at the moon, and on one hand, she wore a ring with runes he recognised from before she was Viscountess, while on the other hand, she wore the silver ring of her office. Varric and Fenris were similarly dressed, though the former sported rich crimson and gold, while the latter preferred greys and blacks. Sebastian himself forewent his armour they were all used to seeing him in for dark sepia tones to his leathers, and blues to his surcoat. The surcoat reached just below his knees and had the silver and white falcon of his family embroidered on the panels. All four were armed as usual, and he smiled at that.

"Almost feels like old times," he remarked, sitting back in his chair to watch them sit and take in the food before them.

"Do you always have food on this table?" Varric asked. "Did you pick up some magic, food-creating table somewhere?"

Sebastian laughed, his rich baritone filling the hall as Hawke's retainers joined them, quiet and dressed simply.

"No, I just inherited good cooks. They're blessed with loving their work."

"As I am becoming, as well," the dwarf chuckled. "There might be something to this whole 'prince' thing."

"Truthfully, I think they enjoy showing off. Usually, it's just my staff and myself they have to feed." Sebastian poured more hot water into his tea.

"What, no balls or fancy parties for our Prince of Starkhaven?"

"Maker, no. I've got too much real work to do."

"All work and no play makes for a dull boy," Hawke chuckled.

"Trust me, I learned that lesson well in the Chantry."

After they finished their meal and Sebastian scribbled his signature on the last paper with a triumphant noise, they carried their conversations to the courtyard. Six horses and four hooded birds of prey waited for them.

"Do you regret your time in the Chantry?" Fenris asked as he mounted the dark roan from the previous night.

Sebastian waited until he was on his dark grey gelding and had Aidan on his arm before responding. "No, of course not. I just see now that it was not the sort of life meant for me."

Hawke was on a black mare, slim and graceful, while Varric sat through Fenris. Raven and Brently both were on chestnuts, and Gerun came with them on his palomino. Varric held his hawk owl, Hawke her namesake, and Gerun held a snowy gyrfalcon for Fenris. Sebastian let his falconer lead the way, so he could fall back and chat with his friends.

"Still not keen on horses, Varric?"

"If Hawke would have brought her bloody mabari along, I could have more easily ridden _him_," the dwarf grumbled.

Hawke laughed with Sebastian at that. He turned his attention to her. "What do you think of your namesake?"

She glanced at her arm. "Heavy, for such a small thing."

"Small, but deadly." She met his gaze at that, as he was pleasantly surprised to see heat in her eyes.

Before he could say anything, Gerun halted the group in a large open field. They sat atop a hill, the side rolling steeply away to their left into a thick forest below. Gerun turned his horse to face the rest of the group. He was a lean old man, with sharp, hawkish features and silver hair. He had no regard to station, and spoke to everyone in the same curt manner.

"First things first. Who has never hunted with a falcon before?"

Fenris and Hawke both voiced their inexperience. Sebastian regarded Varric with some surprise.

"Varric? You've gone falconing before?"

"I've done things you've never even dreamed, so, yes. I have gone falconing before."

Gerun simply nodded.

"That's all right. I won't fault you two for it. It's easy enough," he continued, lifting the arm that held the gyrfalcon. "This is Bella, and she's yours, serrah elf, so she'll be coming back to your arm." He removed her hood, and the raptor blinked sharp, luminous eyes. With a soft murmur to her, Gerun lifted his arm to the air swiftly, propelling the gyrfalcon into the flight as he let go of her jesses. "Most important thing is to remember is to let go of the jesses," he commented, nodding slightly to Hawke. "Else you will have a very unhappy set of talons scrabbling closer to your face than is likely comfortable."

Fenris's eyes were on the sky in the direction Bella flew. "How does she know to come back?"

"Training. Good training. And proper food control. Too lean and hungry, and they'll glutton themselves and just stay out to hunt. Too fat and they don't want to hunt at all. You need to know the right balance."

A few minutes later, a keening cry came from the treetops and Gerun smiled.

"And there's our girl now. Serrah elf, lift your arm—no, the one with the glove, unless you want to get it shredded. Right. Here she comes, get ready—she'll be fast and heavy."

To his credit, Fenris did not flinch as the white blue dove for his arm, pulling back at the last second to offer the dead hare in her talons as well as her jesses. Fenris automatically took the hare right before she landed on his glove, then grasped her leathers with his gloved hand. His eyes were wide as he looked at Sebastian.

"Fantastic," was all he said.

"Got all that?" Gerun asked Hawke. She smiled.

"I think so." Without awaiting further instruction, she followed the same steps Gerun had shown them, though her hawk was a bit heavier and larger than the gyrfalcon.

"Mine is…"

"A red-tailed hawk," Sebastian explained. "Named Durian. I thought him fitting for you."

Her face was alight. "It is. Thank you."

Gerun inclined his head to the hawk owl. "That one's a special case—"

"Also fitting," Hawke piped in.

"—We found him with an arrow through his wing and nursed him back to health in the rookery. He seemed to take to the name Rook quickly."

"Rook," Varric repeated to his bird, scratching the belly feathers as the hawk owl leaned from one foot to another on his wrist.

"Once Durian comes back, you may send Rook," Sebastian said. "Aidan and I don't mind waiting." He thumbed the feet of his bird and she fluffed her down against the cool wind.

Durian came back with a squirrel for Hawke, and Gerun instructed her to let him have some of the meat as Varric released Rook, much to Fenris's and Bella's dismay. The gyrfalcon screeched and spread her wings for balance as Fenris ducked away from the hawk owl's wings.

"Your arms are too short," the elf snarled to Varric, who was merely grinning at his discomfort.

"I'm a special case of gracefulness," he reminded his riding partner.

Fenris watched the hawk owl come back with empty talons and land on Varric's glove with a bit more grace than what he had left with. The bird bobbed his head and burbled.

"A very special case indeed."

Gerun tossed Varric a bit of meat from a pouch, which Rook happily tore at, and Sebastian unveiled Aidan, rubbing her feet one last time for luck before releasing her.

"A truly beautiful bird," Hawke said, following the falcon's flight with her eyes.

"Especially since the peregrine is what my crest is based off of," remarked the archer.

Aidan came back with a smaller bird—perhaps a robin—in tow, chirping happily. Sebastian sighed.

"Other birds are the worst," he said mildly. "I hate de-feathering them."

They let their raptors hunt a few more times each before heading back. Gerun gave them the option of releasing their birds back to the rookery, but they all opted not to.

"You look good with an actual hawk on your arm," Sebastian told Hawke as he rode beside her. He fancied he'd look good with one on his own arm, though he'd certainly prefer the one without feathers.

"And you with your falcon," she replied.

He wanted to ask her about her visit, about bringing Brently, but not in a group. He was certain both Fenris and Varric knew how he felt for her, and he tried to make it as plain to her as he could yesterday, so he decided a private walk with her through is blooming gardens would not come unexpectedly to anyone.

They set their birds all free of their jesses once within the mews, and thanked Gerun for the short lesson as he tended the predators.

"Charming fellow," Hawke said as they led their horses back to the courtyard, where waiting hands took the mounts to the stables.

"A good man," Sebastian amended. "I find I like his honestly. Reminds me of you sometimes." He paused a second. "Not quite as pleasant to look on, however."

"I should hope not."

A smile tugged at his lips. "On that note, might I take the time to show you my gardens?"

"That sounds like a euphemism if I ever heard one," Varric muttered, sure to speak loud enough for them all to hear.

Sebastian ignored the dwarf's commentary and offered Hawke his hand, half-smile dancing over his face. She bit her lip and didn't glance to either side as she took his hand and allowed him to lead her away. Once they had left the others behind, Sebastian was delighted she had not yet let go of his hand nor tried to pull away. He led her through a few doors and hallways back inside the castle proper.

"I thought we were going to your gardens?" she wondered. "Unless Varric hit it more on the mark than I thought?"

He chuckled. "No, we are going to the garden, don't worry." His eyes flicked back to her, the blue darkening to fathoms of the sea. "I wouldn't do anything more without your permission."

He watched in pleasure as a rosy hue crept over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose before tuning to open a door they had reached.

"Close your eyes," he instructed. "I promise it will be worth it."

Obeying, she replied, "If it's anything like the view from that tower…" Hawke let the rest of the sentence hand in the air as he took both her hands in his own and led her outside.

When she opened her eyes at his whispered okay, he knew she found the sight breathtaking; he heard the gasp slip audibly past her lips. Trees in full bloom haphazardly lined a winding stone pathway, branches hanging heavy with flowers and young fruit. There were apples, pears, oranges, a weeping cherry tree that sang with the voices of thousands of bees, as well as dogwoods with their white and red blossoms and delicately curving branches. All along the ground were flowers—peonies, irises, stately tiger lilies, hoards of periwinkles, and even snowdrops left over in the cool spring air. The scent of delphiniums and hyacinths was almost tangible in the breeze, and even Sebastian had trouble recalling all the different flowers that bloomed here. Vines and ivies clung to the ancient stone walls, creeping over the tops in some places to spill out over the edge. Birds sang to one another, and feasted on the drifting insects caught up in the thick haze of pollen-swollen air. It was not overwhelming to them, however, though a pleasantly and mildly delirious look came over Hawke's face as he watched her. It took a while before she found voice enough to speak to him.

"Maker's breath, Sebastian, this is paradise!" Her feet propelled her forward into the garden, and he smiled as he watched her go. As she walked, he saw the years of stress and shouldering so many responsibilities that weren't her own start to melt away as she went from blossom bunch to blossom bunch, marvelling and complimenting. He slowly followed after her, hands clasped behind his back, leather boots silent on the stones and moss.

She came to a halt and stepped through the low, drooping branches covered in pink, humming blossoms of the weeping cherry. He trailed in after her, careful not to overly disturb the bees as he parted the branches like a curtain. It was noticeably cooler and dimmer within the centre, near the trunk of the tree.

"It's like being surrounded by a singing, living veil," she breathed, head tilted back to look up at the canopy.

"I loved coming to sit in this tree as a child. My grandfather used to call me out, telling me that 'the choir had arrived'." Warmth filled Sebastian at the memory, though it was difficult to tell if it was simply the memory itself, or the fact that he was sharing it with her.

Hawke closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I love it."

His heart skipped a beat as soon as the words came out of her mouth.

"It gladdens me to hear that,_ síe criedhan_," he told her, more truthfully than she knew.

She canted her head to one side, squinting slightly at him. "You've said that twice now, that 'shee-cree-dan'. What does it mean?"

It was now or never, Sebastian knew, and he never felt more sure of anything else in his days. He took a breath.

"Would you answer me something first?"

Suspicious rose in her eyes. "Depends. Ask, and if I wish, I will answer."

As much as he felt he had grown in confidence, so had she grown more guarded, and Hawke had always been that from the beginning.

"Who is Brently? Other than part of your ambassadorial, political retinue?"

She didn't meet his eyes. "He's also a suitor."

"Is that why you brought him?" Sebastian fought to maintain a calm demeanour and won. "Is he a… successful suitor?"

Hawke bit her lip, and he feared her answer. "No," she said at last. "He's here for… other reasons. I hope. Nothing to do with _him_ being a suitor."

"It means, 'my heart'."

Her eyes flicked back up to his. "What?"

"_Síe criedhen_. It means 'my heart'." He stepped closer and gently took her hands in his again. "Did you think the kisses meant nothing yesterday? I've loved you since before you restored me my grandfather's bow," he continued, his voice low and heated. "Since before I remember acknowledging that I did."

The smile she gave him was both fond and wry. "And you asked me to journey all the way to Starkhaven to tell me."

"Well, I've got to keep my reputation as Prince, Hawke."

Laughter bubbled from her and he found her sliding easily into his embrace, her movements somehow seeming as if he were the one drawing her in. She rested her head on his collarbone.

"You were my first choice," she whispered.

"Hmm?"

"My first choice," she repeated, louder. "It was always you. And you were always out of my reach."

Sebastian drew back slightly, tilted her chin up to look at him. "No longer, _sîe criedhen_, no longer. Everything I am, is yours." He leaned down and gently captured her lips with his own, feeling himself sink into her taste.

All around them, the bees sang their discordant, beautiful song, the only noise in the quiet afternoon.

* * *

><p>The rest of their stay—which was to be two weeks, Sebastian was finally told—went by too quickly for the Prince's taste. Two days before they were to leave, Sebastian called them all out to the courtyard. Reginald greeted Hawke, Varric, and Fenris in Sebastian's place, informing them his highness would be along shortly. When he did come out, all three let out noises of surprise. He couldn't help but grin, as his traditional choice of outfit had the desired effect on the desired person. Hawke's face and neck flushed as he watched her eyes sweep over him—and he knew what a striking figure he cut. His wool kilt in dark blues and subdued reds, with thin lines of green bisecting the plaids, fell to the proper length just above his knees. Tall, wool kilt hose with intricate knotwork weaving up the sides rose from his worn dancing boots to stop a few inches below the knees. He wore a thick cream shirt with a thinner one beneath it, the undershirt hugging his frame more snugly. Held in place over his right shoulder with the falcon crest pin of the Vaels was a swath of his plaid, crossing to the opposite hip, both in the front and back. A wide belt held a leather sporran in front, its only contents his grandmother's ring.<p>

"Well, hel-_lo_ your Princeliness," Varric said with a whistle. "I never thought I'd catch you in a skirt!"

"It's a kilt, Varric, and were you to try one yourself, you'd understand why Starkhaven men like them so much."

"I think I can guess," Hawke said, still flush. He certainly hoped all sorts of salacious thoughts concerning his kilt rant through her mind like a stampeding herd.

Sebastian held two swords, which he placed parallel to one another on the ground. Reginald handed him two more, and he crossed the first two with those, creating an open-ended grid of sorts with the four blades. He stood next to them as a piper came out.

"Sebastian," Hawke began reproachfully, "what in the name of Andraste's holy ass are you doing?"

A grin swept over his face, broad and brilliant. "A Starkhaven tradition," was his only reply.

As the piper inflated the bag and opened his drones, Sebastian drew in a breath, focusing his thoughts to a single point. He was not nervous. He knew all these steps, knew every beat like his own heart. He would not make a mistake.

"It's a question," he told them—one last, enigmatic titbit before the melody of the tune started from the pipes.

Both piper and Sebastian kept beat with their heels tapping on the ground as Sebastian put his fists firmly on his hips, strong and still. He bowed to his audience, and then straightened. In the next beat, one arm went into the air, fingers bent and raised to mimic a stag's antlers, and he stepped and spun expertly over and around the sword grid, and easy expression floating on his face.

All he heard were the pipes; all he saw was Hawke.

His feet and arms moved and switched as his orientations and rotations dictated, the movements so ingrained into his muscles from practicing that he barely had to think about them. His feet drifted only a few inches above the swords, perilously close to kicking them, but not once did he even graze one as he danced above the crossed blades.

It felt as if no time at all had passed before the tune ended, him standing straight and tall in the opposite corner to where he began. He lowered his raised arm to hip again, bowing one last time before the pipes cut entirely. His heart pounded in his chest not out of any exorbitant exertion, though the sword dance was no easy one, but more for Hawke's reaction. All three of his friends clapped, Varric grinning, Hawke's face full of delight.

"So," she asked him, walking closer. "What's the question?"

He went up to her, drawing the small box out of his sporran. Sebastian dared not take his eyes from her face; he feared she might vanish if he were to do so.

"Maebh Hawke," he began reverently. "Could you ever find it in yourself to wake every morning to these mountains, to fall asleep every night in my arms, to take on Vael as your own?" He opened the box to her, revealing the ring inside, the moonstone filling with fire in the sunlight.

All time seemed to stop, and the very wind felt as if it held its breath, awaiting her answer. He watched, heart in his throat, as her eyes filled with tears that would never spill over. Then she threw her arms around his neck, and he knew.

"Maebh Vael," she whispered thickly in his ear. "Has a nice ring to it."

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><p><strong>AN: For Sebastian's dance, look up Highland Sword Dance and enjoy.**

**Many sundry thanks for Zevgirl, who beta'd this for me!**


	4. Respects

**A/N: This contains spoilers for the end of the game, so this is your fair warning.**

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><p><strong>Respects<strong>

The light cast a coolness over everything. It was past dawn, but not yet late in the morning, and the air was pure, clean, and as of yet unsullied by the warmth of the sun. It was a quality only autumn and the mountains held, and it had long been his favourite time of day. The trees had only just started to turn, and created a patchwork of greens, yellows, oranges, and reds through the valley and up the mountainsides. His eldest sons always tried to insist he keep an escort when he left the old stronghold, but he never listened to them. The day he couldn't defend himself, he told them, was the day he was dead.

So, he rode alone along the winding, narrow trail, giving his horse her head to go at her own pace. He was in no rush; the one he went to visit wouldn't be going anywhere. He liked to look about him at his provinces as he rode, taking time to absorb the beauty of it all over again. He came this way at least once a week, his heart unable to stay away from her for long. They used to ride together every morning, until she no longer had strength enough to stay atop a horse, and it was then he knew they were close to the end. She hadn't lasted longer than a month after that. Riding this trail by himself had hurt too much at first, then became bittersweet. Now, he rode with fondness and memories, at peace with himself. It had been five years since he brought her to rest in the mountains, and he had relinquished reign to their eldest son, Edward. Sometimes, their two younger sons, Gregor and Malcom, accompanied him, along with their daughter, Seren, but those times had grown fewer and farther between as the children started their own lives and families. Edward and Gregor both had children, the elder with two girls, the younger a son. Malcom and Seren both had set out to travel a few years ago, and had, Sebastian Vael thought, hopefully not started their own families yet.

He didn't mind making the trip to see her alone. They hadn't had much time truly alone for thirty years, since Edward was born, and he could now speak his mind to her again without worry. He only wished she could still do the same.

Two hours he rode through the mountains, until the trail forked. He went left, and was enveloped by the forest where the grass had grown over the edges of the trail. It was much cooler in the dappled shade of the trees, and Sebastian was glad he chose to wear his cloak. To him, the autumns seemed to come earlier these past years, the air growing colder sooner than he remembered when he was younger. He felt the ache in his bones earlier and earlier, too, and always could tell at least a day or two before a bad storm would hit, mostly in his knees and fingers. He could still draw a bow, still wield a dagger or sword, but his muscles and joints invariably complained bitterly about it afterward for hours without relenting. He missed both the baths and oil massages she would share with him. A smile pulled at his lips, and he tugged a bit at the iron grey whiskers he now sported. He kept his beard well-groomed and trimmed closely; after he overheard her talking to a friend about how distinguished and stern it made him look, about how much she liked it on him, he decided to keep the style. She had always loved to run her fingernails through his hair, still thick even as it turned a dark steel colour as he aged—once, he tried to grow it long enough to tie back, but it had aggravated him entirely too much, so he cut it back to the same length he always had. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he recalled how she finally let her own hair grow out, lustrous and wavy, to the small curve of her back. She loved to braid it and he loved to undo the braid after watching the long red and silver plait whisper across her strong back all day.

The trees finally opened up to a field still dotted with late summer flowers and Andraste's Lace. He could smell wild chives, and saw their blooms waving above the others on slender stalks, reaching for the morning sun. Old stones sat near the middle, moss and vines creeping up their sides. Some of the names and dates carved into them had faded to be barely an impression, but the youngest of them was clear as if it had been carved yesterday. He dismounted and let his mare graze freely—she was well trained and his personal favourite, and he did not worry she would run off. Five stones marked out a semi-circle, and he went to them first, carefully clearing off vines where they had snaked up to cling to the stones, murmuring soft words as he went. His parents and brothers slept beneath those stones, gone back to the earth in their thin shrouds. Back to the mountains that birthed and raised them. Fondness shone through his features as he went to each one, intentionally saving her for last. Once satisfied with his family, he went to his love.

He had wanted to carve her stone himself, but had neither the skills nor the artistry to give her the justice she deserved. In the end, he had to settle for watching the stonecutter carve everything to his satisfaction. The stone was simple and strong, imported from the western mountain quarries and known as ironstone. The quarryman he had worked with said it would stand the test of time, so he ordered one for both of them, a matching set from the same parent slab.

He looked over the inscription with a sad affection as he knelt—slowly and with a bit of stiffness—to brush dust and vines from her stone. _Maebh Hawke Vael_, it read. _Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall, Princess Regent of Starkhaven, Mother and Beloved Wife_. Below all the lines of titles and the dates of her birth and death, he had ordered words in the old tongue to be carved, an old adage his grandfather always would say to his grandmother. _Rhyth dunaen eo saolach_, hers read. His stone would hold the second half of the phrase, _Siaelan t-srea myr croinach_. Wings straight and swift will bring us home. Above the titles on both their stones would be a hawk and falcon, together holding two daggers and two arrows in their talons. She already had hers, and his was made and waiting.

"Soon enough," he told her softly, wincing as he rearranged himself to sit. He did not impatiently await death, but he no longer dreaded or feared it. A smile tugged at his mouth.

"You were always rushing ahead of me into the thick of things," he mused, recalling all the battles they had fought together, him hanging back to pick off enemies with precise arrows while she tore through the middle of them with her long daggers. "What a fool I was then, to spurn your affections for so long. I did think I was doing the right thing, though." He had apologised countless times over the years, even after their children had been born, when drink or sickness made him weak and forget the life they had built and fought for. He had apologised for his unrelenting anger that lasted for years at her refusal to kill Anders for destroying the Chantry in Kirkwall.

He shook his head. That had been a point of contention that reared his ugly head for over a decade in arguments, until it had almost broken them both. She had left in a fit of anger and hurt, had not come back for months—and he had seethed and didn't go to find her. Seren was only a little girl then, and didn't understand why her mother wasn't around. Just when he began to really worry he had driven her away entirely, she came back, calm and compromising. They spent two weeks after that working things out, old hurts, old angers, until the air was clean and the waters smooth between them. There had been no problems after that.

He sat for a while, softly speaking of news of their principalities to her, how Edward had stepped up to fill the role of Prince Regent as well as they could ever have hoped to raise him, of how their children and grandchildren were faring otherwise, of how he ached in the fall and spring and missed her sure, strong hands to knead his pains away. After he could think of no more to tell her, he sat in silence, listening to the wind and enjoying the feel of it on his face. He closed his eyes and could smell loam and cinnamon, never failing to remind him of her.

Then, a different scent filled his nose. He heard his mare paw the ground, but not start in panic or alarm, and he saw no reason to arm himself. He knew that smell. It had been over forty years since he last recalled smelling it, but it hadn't dimmed his memory any. Nothing could ever make him forget that exact smell of ozone and sulphur, even though he had made his peace concerning the man it clung to.

"Anders," he said without opening his eyes.

There was a tense hesitation, almost palpable in the air.

"Sebastian," came the mage's tentative reply.

Long moments of silence passed. Sebastian opened his eyes and got to his feet, grunting quietly as he did so. He turned and saw Anders on foot, leaning heavily on a weathered black staff with a broken top. The man himself looked much the same—long, dirty coat with patches all over it, worn boots, and an old, haggard face. His hair had gone ashen grey with age, and there were deep circles under his eyes, dark stubble on his jaw and cheekbones. He was dusty from travel, and too thin for his height.

"You look tired," Sebastian said, no malice in his voice.

Anders winced, but nodded. "I have been, for a long, long time." He looked at Sebastian. "The years have been kinder to you."

"Thank you." There was no point in denying it. He did not hate Anders any longer, but he certainly didn't like him, either. "I have been blessed."

Anders didn't answer, but looked beyond him to his wife's grave. The apostate's amber eyes softened.

"I heard she had passed," he said quietly. "When…?"

"Five years ago," Sebastian answered smoothly.

Anders' eyes went to the ground. "I—I'm sorry. I just heard a few months ago."

"You have no reason to apologise, Anders." All their old companions had shown up for the wake to pay their respects and share stories, old and new—all save Anders, who had vanished after the whole Kirkwall incident, and Aveline, who had been taken by consumption a decade before that. Sebastian was a little sad for Maebh's sake, for he knew she once had been very close to the mage.

Giving a tired smile, Sebastian stepped to the side, motioning to the grave with his hand. Anders seemed to understand what he was doing and walked up to the stone.

He fell to his knees and reached out to touch the ironstone gently, and Sebastian saw his hand shaking. The aged Prince of Starkhaven clasped his hands behind his back and waited silently. He watched as Anders ran unsteady fingers over the hawk and falcon crest he and Maebh had adapted after they married, lingering over the hawk half.

"I'm so sorry," he heard Anders whisper, heard the tears in his voice. "I never got to say that, never got to really _feel_ it until these last few years. When it was too late." The apostate bowed his head and his shoulders shook gently. Sebastian did not move or say anything. He felt no need to condemn or comfort the man, and so let him to his grief.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to pay my respects when it happened," Anders continued, not caring Sebastian was still there, simply needing to get the words out, needing to get the feelings out of his chest and heart. "But at least I'm here now. I always loved you," he admitted, and Sebastian felt the slightest twinge of jealousy tug at his gut. "Even at my lowest depths, even when you thought I didn't care, I always loved you. I wish I could have told you that."

Sebastian drew in a breath, and nodded slightly to himself. He would not intrude any longer; the confessions that began pouring out of Anders were far too personal for his ears. He didn't want to hear them. He knew his wife was with Anders for a time before he destroyed the Chantry and she became Viscountess of Kirkwall, and that was as much as he cared to know. Even with all the years and the life he had shared with her afterward, Anders showing up so suddenly and unexpectedly after being completely out of that life unearthed old emnities. Sebastian took his leave of the grieving apostate and went over to his mare, murmuring softly to her and running his hands over her neck. She leaned into him and sighed in contentment, her barrel chest giving one great heave.

After a while, he heard Anders approach. He turned his head slightly to acknowledge the other man.

"I—" Anders started, but Sebastian cut him off.

"Don't." The old archer turned fully to face the mage. "I made my peace long ago. Don't go dredging up what has already passed."

Anders nodded, and Sebastian hoped he truly understood.

"I just… All I tried, all I said… I knew I never fully had her affections." He didn't meet Sebastian's eyes, which were unfathomable as the deepest sea. He shook his head. "For all that I tried, she was always distant. Always… distracted."

Sebastian pursed his lips. "Please tell me you have a point to this other than to make me feel awkward?"

A nervous laugh came from Anders. "Yes. Sorry. I guess… I just want to know what you did that I never could."

An exasperated exhale escaped Sebastian before he could stop it. All the old antagonisms reared their heads in full before he could quell them, drawing in a breath.

"Anders… That was over forty years ago. Why do you want to know after all this time?"

The mage met his eyes and Sebastian saw anger flash in them. "I never got closure. You say all those things so easily, so dismissively because you had the opportunity to talk them out, to talk to her. I never got that."

Sebastian closed his eyes, folded his arms across the chest his age couldn't seem to lessen the breadth of. He decided he owed it to his wife and her memory to give this man who was once her friend, who was once her lover, closure. He loved her, too, Sebastian reminded himself, and obviously had not let that go, even after so long. He would do it for her.

"I never demanded anything from her." The reply was curt, more so than he intended. He opened his eyes, saw the confusion on Anders' face.

"What?"

"You, Fenris, Isabella, her family, even Merrill and Aveline. Everyone demanded something from her. Loyalty, to side with someone over another, to choose one ideal over another, to do for them or not. To help them, to fix their problems."

The look Anders gave him was flat, unfriendly. "And you'd have me believe you never did."

"I didn't. She helped me avenge my family of her own choice—I didn't even know her then. Everything she did was not because I asked her to, but because she wanted to. I'm not saying she didn't _want_ to help everyone else," he went on, not unfolding his arms, but holding up a few fingers to keep Anders from interrupting. "But that all the requests and demands took their toll on her. It wore her thin by the end of it all, and she came to me several times just to get away. To be around someone who she knew wouldn't ask anything of her."

"Didn't you—" Anders stumbled, the memory obviously paining him. "After what I did to the Chantry, I remember you demanding her kill me."

"Yes," Sebastian agreed slowly. "I did do that. And she didn't."

There was a moment's pause. "Do you regret that she didn't?"

"For a long while. We argued about it sometimes. Once, she left for months because we were so angry. But she came back and we got through that." A wry smile came unbidden to his lips. "That, and asking her to marry me and move to Starkhaven with me, were the only two demands I made of her."

"I wish I could have done better by her," Anders said quietly.

Sebastian nodded. "As do I. I don't exactly want to say I'm glad that you didn't, though."

This time it was Anders that gave a cynical smile. "Yes, you do. I don't fault you it. I betrayed her, and I know it." He glanced back at the grave. "I'm glad to have told her, though, some way. I think… I think I can finally forgive myself for it all."

That one monstrous act had haunted him all these years, Sebastian realised. "I know she would have wanted you to. Even through her own hurt and anger."

Anders looked back at the other man. "Thank you. For letting me say my words to her. For not killing me on sight."

Sebastian's tone was not unkind. "As I said, I made my own peace with it long ago."

Anders nodded. "Thank you," he said again. He glanced around. "I should be going."

"As you will." Sebastian would not stop him.

He watched the old mage limp back to Maebh's grave one last time, and bend over it momentarily. He noticed, as Anders straightened, just how heavily he leaned on his staff. Without another word or glance from either man to the other, Anders walked quietly away from the graves, soon vanishing beyond the next roll of the ridge, the tall grasses enveloping his mildly hunched form.

Sebastian went to his wife's grave after Anders was out of sight and looked down to see blooming flowers all around the stone. He smiled sadly at the delphiniums and gillyflowers now ringing the grave from the last bit of magic Anders cast for his old friend. They were her favourites. Running a few fingertips over the top curve of her stone, Sebastian whispered his love to her before turning and heading to his mare. After he mounted, he cast one more look to the flowers, then nudged the mare into motion back to Starkhaven, the long ride filled with his memories.

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><p><strong>AN: I really like the format of slightly disconnected but overall linked stories. I write in increments as ideas hit me (like this one, which I'm strangely very fond of), and I completely welcome any prompts or ideas anyone else out there might have. **This particular segment is slight AU of Bonds of Blood, but I can't and won't say why, but once I write up to it, you'll understand immediately.****

****I like to think there are a bunch of people out there impatiently awaiting the e-mail update with the new chapter of Bonds of Blood, and I promise I have the latest chapter in the midst of being typed up, and the one after that in the midst of being written. In the meanwhile, to placate you all, here's two more installments in one night of this series.****


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